Put Your Hands Up
by Tabbyluna
Summary: Just a writing exercise. Wanted to do some descriptive writing. Based on a discord conversation.


**Like I said in the summary, this was based on a Discord conversation. I listened to a lot of Lady Gaga while writing this.**

Dressing up for the show was always the most tedious part of the whole process, but he would be lying if he said that he didn't enjoy it. Quite the opposite actually. When he got into the dressing room, and out of his drab work clothes, it felt great. Freeing, in fact. Alone in his room, he could begin work on looking exactly how he wanted, in a place where everyone understood why.

He reached for a pastel-coloured cotton tube top first. Form-fitting and comfortable, it would only be the first layer he would put on that night. Once he had at least a layer on, he sank into his chair, and faced the mirror. Makeup was always the most time-consuming part, but after years of doing it his fingers had gotten accustomed to the ritual. It almost felt wrong if there was a weekend without giving his hands their exercise. After washing his face and a quick shave, he reached for a tube of medical tape and taped his long, thin eyebrows down. From there, he started on the foundation.

Glumshanks had been using the same old products since he started all those years ago. Makeup for trolls was hard to come by, since they simply never valued beauty in any way, shape, or form. But after weeks of searching, he found a shade of makeup which he was not allergic to and fit his skin colour. They were made by a small company, run by elves. They catered mostly to elves, specifically ones with darker or lighter skin tones than average, but Glumshanks had been a loyal customer ever since he found out they existed. He used his fingers, and coated his face with a cream before setting it with powder. And once the canvas was prepared, he used his tools - contour, concealer, and correctors - to paint his face. Blending and highlighting and molding it just right. Tracing out eyebrows and cancelling out shadows. Just like how his drag mother had first taught him, back when he was a lonely young adult kicked out to survive.

Once that was over with, it was time to add some colour to his face. He opened a drawer, and pulled out the right tools for the job. There were the usual tools of trade. Mascara and fake eyelashes. Lipstick, lip gloss, pencils and blush, all in his signature colour of bright pink. This was the part he always relished in. The act of transforming himself, molding himself into something which was artful and creative and _him_. As he added the colour to his face, he would do it with the patience and passion of an artist creating his magnum opus. And with a spray of hairspray to keep it all in place (an old trick he learned from a fellow queen), he was done with makeup.

And then came shaving his chest, and lacing up his corset. He had saved his pennies to get it, and everytime he did it up, he would always feel a sense of pride bubbling in his chest. He had truly earned every cent to get it, and it was in his opinion, one of his greatest achievements.

Then came the hip pads, and the tights to keep them in place. He had carved out his pads out of an old couch cushion, a common experience for the other queens he knew. The skeleton of the couch now lay in the storeroom. He believed someone had named it Raymond.

And after he tucked everything in place, he walked over to his closet, and began to choose his outfit. Despite it all, he had managed to own a few dresses. Raiding charity stores, as well as saving up for some newer, fresher fashions. But his favourite dress had to be one an old friend designed personally for him. At University, she had studied fashion design, and it had been years since he last saw her. But she had been the first person outside his family who knew that he was interested in drag. And she was by far the most supportive. She had made him a long-sleeved, floor-length gown. Made out of some silky, soft fabric which flowed and accommodated whoever was wearing it nicely. It was light pink and glittery, with dozens of lace roses sewn all over it. Glumshanks loved it when he first received it as a birthday present, he still loved it now, and he hoped that she was doing well wherever she might be in Skylands.

Once he had chosen out a dress, he laced up a pair of pink, bejewelled, high heeled boots. And waltzed over to his collection of wigs. He had a handful, and he had been meaning to get more. He knew some queens who owned as many as fifty wigs, all in different colours, lengths and styles too. But since he barely had enough money, he had to make do with what he had. The ones he owned were all in various shades of pink. From bubblegum to neon to razzmatazz. And he made a point to always have thick curly hair. "It suits you," said his drag mother years ago. And after he chose his wig, he finished it up with a striped white-and-pink bow. A spray of hairspray, and then there was only one more step.

He finished up the look with some nails. "The look is never complete without a fierce touch," said his drag mother. And he had always kept that in mind, never forgetting to glue on a set of long nails. Always in his signature colour, always with a glossy metallic shine.

And then he was finished! And it would be time to perform. He would head out and hang out backstage with all his fellow queens. And when his name got called, the lights would dim and the hall would grow silent. A queen would probably tell him to break a leg, and he would hurry up to his position. The curtains would rise, the limelight would find him. And as the music started to play and he laced his fingers around a microphone, he would do what he did best, do what he loved doing most, and perform.

**I actually knew a guy who did drag in Secondary School. He was a big fan of RuPaul's Drag Race, and he was in my drama club. Good actor, I hope he's doing well.**


End file.
